


Lost & Found

by Little_Miss_Rainstorm



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:05:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Miss_Rainstorm/pseuds/Little_Miss_Rainstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is not what you'd call a dog person. But when he finds one in the park on his morning run, what else can he do but take it home with him? His search for the owner brings him much more than he bargained for. </p>
<p>A fluffy drabble involving lost pugs and London. Maybe a little angst/possible mature content later on, who knows? :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Erik liked to run. He liked the ache in his muscles, the burn in the base of his lungs, the steady beat of it. He also liked the control – the fact that he could jog and mull over his day with the flames of exertion just barely curling around the muscle at his calves, or he could run like a mad thing, his skin saturated in sweat, primal instinct robbing him of any thought outside of the heavy rhythm of his heart, beating in every part of him that was full of blood. He chose a middling speed today, taking a leisurely route through the park, enjoying the crisp cold of London on the cusp of winter. It was early, Erik practically alone as he ran down the boardwalk, passing occasional early-bird joggers, like himself, and the walk-of-shamers, stumbling home after a long Friday night. 

Something small and furry barrelled into his path with little warning, yapping and distressed and trailing a leash behind it. The handle scraped along the tarmac path as the little dog whimpered right under Erik’s feet.

“Shit!” He managed, swerving around the thing. He reclaimed his balance, looking at it. Was this stunted little creature meant to be a dog? It turned its nose up to Erik, sniffing the legs of his tracksuit trousers, seeming soothed by his warmth. “Hey, stop it,” He crouched awkwardly. Gott, the thing looked like it had run into a plate glass window, its nose mushed up against the rest of its face. It was a dopey little thing, but Erik couldn’t help but soften when it sniffed his knee again, whining softly. “I can’t smell very good, I’ve been running,” He patted the thing’s head softly, awkwardly, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he was talking to a dog. “Where did you come from, hmm?” he reached for the collar around its neck. 

The thing, to Erik’s alarm, rolled over excitedly the second his hand neared it, lying on its back with its soft, pink belly facing upwards. Erik rubbed it gingerly with his index finger, its tongue lolling idiotically in pleasure as he did so, its back leg kicking spasmodically. It was a girl, Erik noted without meaning to.   
“Hold still,” He said, pausing the belly rub to catch the little round disk hanging from her collar. It had no name; it was just inscribed with a black ‘X’ cutting cleanly from one edge of the circle to another. “Apparently, your name is ‘X’,” He tickled her tummy a little more, ignoring how grotesque the warm, hairy flesh, focusing instead on her hyperactive joy at the attention. Both legs were kicking this time. “What am I going to do with you?” He asked, loath to leave the poor little thing wandering around alone.   
He stood, fingers curling around the handle of the leash. She flipped back onto her stubby legs with difficulty, like a turtle balanced on its shell. “I suppose you’re coming with me, then. Until we can find your owner,” He squared his shoulders and began walking in the direction of home, trying not to imagine his white carpet saturated with dog mess. The dumb little animal didn’t move. “Come on, girl. Walkies,” He tried in a high pitched voice, he sounded like an idiot. He could almost feel the thing judging him, resolutely refusing to budge. “Come on!” 

The stupid creature, it turned out, was not as fond of exercise as Erik was. Which is how Erik, a six-foot-three, two-hundred pound professor of English Literature, found himself sitting on the tube, a small pug tucked into his hoodie. The woman across the way from him was eyeing him appreciatively, the woman to her left barely supressing a laugh as she took a photo on her phone, less discreetly than she imagined, he was sure. 

“Would you like me to pose?” He asked gruffly, regretting it the moment he’d said it. She moved down a seat. The dog looked at him with doleful black eyes. “What are you looking at?” He mumbled to the puppy, she licked his chin in answer. The woman in the opposite seat looked about to melt into a puddle, no doubt toying with the idea of giving him her number. Luckily, his stop came before she’d decided, avoiding the awkward ‘I’m flattered but I like dick’ conversation as he slipped out of the automatic doors. The dog was judging him, he could tell. “Shut up,” He muttered, zipping the hoodie higher at her back, cradling her with one arm as he jogged up the station steps. She nuzzled into his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

“Raven, you cannot call the police over a missing dog…” He said, rather hopelessly, running his fingers through his hair. He liked animals, though he was infinitely fonder of them on a cellular level. He had yet to misplace a petri dish of animal tissue in the middle of Regent’s Park, but there was a first time for everything.

“Watch me, Charles,” she hissed, jabbing the nine on the phone as if it had done her a personal wrong. “I can’t believe you lost my dog!”

“In fairness, I would say your dog lost _me_ ,” Charles retorted, holding his hands up in front of him as Raven’s eyes narrowed, the voice on the end of the phone asking what service was required. _Ambulance_ , Charles was tempted to shout, _whether to escort Raven to her psych evaluation or to rush me into A &E has yet to be determined_. “It ran off after a squirrel or a leaf or something, the leash just slipped through my hands. Of course, I went after it, chased it through the woods and…” He trailed off.

  
Raven jabbed the red button on the phone with her thumb, narrowing her eyes at Charles. The ambulance will definitely be for me, then, excellent. She sighed levelly, like the first gust of wind before a hurricane.

“On reflection,” She began, gesturing broadly with the house phone still tightly in her grip, “I have realised that emergency services have much more important things to deal with than my dog,” Charles opened his mouth to agree, she held up a hand, “You, however, do not,”

“Raven, I have papers to mark-”

“No, no excuses. You’re not Mr Professor man today, Charles,” She put her hands on her hips, “Today, you are my professional dog-finder, you must pay for your crimes against humanity,”

“That’s from a film, isn’t it?”

“I need ‘Lost Dog’ posters, lots of them,” She smiled at him, as if he were an elderly relative who had just soiled himself. Charles rubbed the elbow patches on his jumper almost defensively.

“Definitely from a film…”

She rolled her eyes, “I’ll email you a few pictures of her and you can design them, okay?”

“This is going to bother me, you know, all day,”

“Charles. The posters. You can pay for printing, 'cause it's your fault I need them. Pay extra for the coloured paper; they need to be eye-catching,”

Charles stared up at her, eyebrows knitted together, no doubt absorbing everything she’d said but not allowing it to surface into conscious thought until he’d solved his current problem. Raven rolled her eyes, again. He was like this about every problem or puzzle he encountered; he’d been silent for about two weeks when he got a Rubiks cube for Christmas when he was maybe ten. He nearly went cross-eyed when he couldn't remember in which year Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister during a game of Trivial Pursuit. Hank had quietly whispered ‘1979’ when Charles looked on the verge of collapse.

“For goodness sake, Charles, it was from ‘Scott Pilgrim vs. The World’, now can you please please please capital-P-Please make some posters so I can get my bloody dog back?”

Charles brightened, hopping up from the sofa. “It was on the tip of my tongue!” He grinned, stretching and striding purposefully towards the study. “Now!" He clapped, "The posters, these will be the best Lost Dog posters the world has ever seen, mark my words. We will revolutionise the entire business,”

Raven could only collapse on the sofa and hope her brother’s revolutionary neon masterpieces would get her pug back.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik and the dog were at an impasse, a stand-off. Neither of them were willing to stand down. He tried to stare her into submission but her gaze had remained steady and black, no matter how he narrowed his eyes. He had left her to explore the small flat while he marked frankly dubious essays on Gothic novels, listening out for barks of distress or the sound of shitting. After several hours, he had practically forgotten her, so stooped in mediocre analyses of Jane Eyre that he couldn’t see straight. When he decided it was probably time for bed, he’d been startled into remembering.

X, the opportunist pug, was lying, snuggled up in the middle of his bed like she owned it. He hadn’t really known what to say. He hadn’t clearly stated that this was _not_ her bed, and it _was_ comfortable. If he were a dog, he would probably have chosen here to sleep. So, he simply stood, in uncertain frustration, staring at her as she slept. The twitch of her ears was endearing, but Erik wanted to sleep too, Goddammit. He cleared his throat. She woke slowly, staring at him as if to say _yes, what do you want now?_

The staring match went on for several minutes. Erik sighed.

“Fine, you can sleep here tonight,” He said, crossing his arms, “Just tonight,”

She blinked.

“Can you…can you turn around so I can change?” He knew it was ridiculous, but he wasn’t used to having other living things in his home, other than pot plants that inevitably died. It felt unspeakably weird to change in front of the little creature. He made a desperate half-circle gesture with his finger and, to his amazement; she complied, turning to face the wall. “I…I guess your owner trained you, huh?”

He undressed quickly, throwing on a pair of cotton sleep pants and then hesitating. He usually slept shirtless, but that too seemed odd considering his bunk mate. He pulled out a thin t-shirt and put that on too, muttering under his breath about bloody home invading dogs. Erik pulled the duvet up, rolling the little pug to the other side of the bed to make room for him. She slid down the slope of sheet, like a wave made entirely of foam, landing in a messy heap of limbs and fur. He slid into his side of the bed, lying awkwardly on one side and awkwardly still so he wouldn’t disturb her. He turned out the light, she crawled up to the space behind his neck and curled up, snuggling into his warmth. “Personal space, X?” He tried; she nuzzled closer and licked his ear, falling deeply asleep before Erik could wonder how on earth he’d managed to get here.


	4. Chapter 4

Sellotape, Charles had decided, was not made in a factory, but sent directly from Satan himself to torture him. His clothes were peppered with it, shiny plastic squares all over his grey cardigan, and he was certain there was some in his hair. His fingers were tacky with the adhesive and he'd walked easily a mile in each direction, plastering  _fucking dog posters_ on every bench, lamppost, bus stop and tree he could possibly find. He handed them out to people, too, getting strange looks. He couldn't blame them, really. He was the weirdo in an old-man cardigan, practically mummified by tape, his cheeks red with exertion and the cold, handing out fluorescent pink 'Lost Dog' posters like the world's strangest club promoter. He sighed, staring at the stack of paper in his arms. If he went home with leftover posters, Raven would probably punch him in the kidneys like they were still twelve and fighting over the TV remote. He considered dumping them. She'd find out somehow...and punch him in the kidneys. In fact he couldn't conceive a situation in which he _wouldn't_ get punched in the kidneys if he left now, and he quite liked his kidney's unbruised and fully functional.

He kept walking. 

The only positive thing he could take from this experience was the opportunity to ogle. Not in a lecherous way, though that was challenging given his current style - homeless professor chic - but he was being subtle. Most of the posters he, well, posted, were stuck in and around the scene of the crime, a park very popular with joggers. More specific to Charles, trim, male joggers, in clingy lycra or shorts, despite the weather. There was even something to be said for those in jogging bottoms, hinting at the strong legs underneath. So maybe Charles was a little desperate. He hadn't even been on a date for four months, hadn't had sex for even longer. It was depressing as hell, and Raven was pressuring him to 'get back out there'. He still wasn't entirely sure whether he'd ever been  _out there_ in the first place, let alone whether he was ready to go back. Not after the last one. He considered going out and finding a nice one night stand or something, but the last one had stripped him of his former confidence and charm, made him second guess every move he made. Charles sighed, nostalgic for the confident playboy he'd been once upon a time, certain his youthful, bookish allure and firm body would get him noticed. Now he was frumpy and pale, sickly looking and 'too thin', as Raven always said, taped into a cardigan with elbow patches, clutching posters like an infant against his chest and eyeing up joggers like some pitiful park pervert. 

He suddenly felt disgusted with himself, fighting a heave as he turned back to the half-stuck poster, hanging like a psychedelic blossom from the cold metal limb of the lamp-post.  He didn't notice the man who approached him until he touched his shoulder. Charles turned sharply. 

"Excuse me," Said Adonis, Charles was sure that was his name 'cause he was so bloody attractive it physically hurt his eyeballs to take him in. He was tall, towering over Charles in a delightful way, and toned, with broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist and long, strong legs that made Charles jealous of his sweatpants. His face was chiseled, with a jaw Charles could crack a beer bottle open on, and his eyes were light blue and crazy intense. He was...gah...honest to God, Charles Xavier, the man with a Phd in Genetics from Oxford University could not formulate a better description than GAH in that moment. He licked his lips, trying to get his heart to, you know, beat. The Greek God seemed just as startled by him, probably that he wasn't an elderly woman, as his cardigan and haircut suggested. His gorgeous mouth moved wordlessly for a minute, and Charles was content to look at him. "I...saw you lost your dog," He said, finally, in that pretty, gravelly voice of his, rubbing his jaw. Careful, Charles thought dreamily, don't cut yourself. 

"Oh...um, yes, I mean," He stumbled into speech, realizing he'd stared into the handsome stranger's eyes for longer than social niceties really allowed, "Uh, it's technically my sister's dog, but I lost her so...,"  _Oh for fuck's sake Charles!_ He took a deep breath and attempted his most charming smile. It probably came off more feral than alluring. "Yes, I've lost my dog," 

"Ah...um, I don't suppose you'd like some help finding her?" the man stared down at him, and it was a bizarre offer from a perfect stranger (emphasis on the  _perfect_ ), but how could he say no? 

"Uh, you don't have to-"

"I want to!" 

"Um, okay then, sure," The man's face split into a grin that was a little too wide and had too many teeth in it, but was still so gorgeous Charles wanted to snatch it off his face and keep it in his back pocket. "I'm Charles, by the way," He held out a hand, barely holding in his gasp when the man's warm, strong fingers wrapped around his. 

"I'm Erik," 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

"So," Erik said to the dog, "I'm fucked,"

Erik often told his students that profuse swearing was a sign of a lack of imagination, and profanity should be wielded cleverly and sparingly to establish character and build tension. This being said, there was no word that summed up his situation even marginally better than _fucked_. He was never a liar, his mother had made sure of that before she died, and yet his first instinct had been to lie. 

He'd been jogging through the park again when he noticed a plethora of bright pink posters lighting the path on either side like fluorescent bread crumbs. Initially he'd assumed they were advertising some club or rave or roof-top cinema screening and vegan barbecue - it was London, after all. But when one got stuck to the sole of his running shoe, he'd noticed what was on it. Who was on it, really. Staring back at him with those intelligent black eyes was X. _Beast_ he corrected in his head, almost chuckling over the absurdity of it as the tiny creature licked his thumb.

"Raven thought it was ironic," Charles had laughed, walking beside him, "We've gotten into the habit of calling her Bea, though,"

_Charles._ Erik practically groaned out loud at the thought of his name, his face, the way his ridiculously red lips wrapped around a laugh. 

Erik had never felt so instantaneously attracted to someone before, it was like being struck by lightening or being pulled under by a wave, if he wanted to be slightly less cliche. This was the power of the man, he'd robbed and English Literature professor of his words. Fuck. Erik had known exactly what he was going to say when he found X's owner in the park, the poster clenched in his hand.

"Hi, I'm Erik, I have your dog,"

Simple, easy, doable. The only thing he hadn't taken into consideration was how  _doable_ he would find the owner himself. The man was lithe and small from behind, washed out blue jeans clinging to his legs and a perfect arse. Erik had seen many in his time, and this one was something incredible. He immediately scolded himself for objectifying the poor man, cleared his throat and tapped him on the shoulder. Like a fool, he had assumed that any attraction had been thoroughly dismissed by a clearing of the mind and the throat. Oh, God, how wrong he'd been. The man turned on him, all distracted blue eyes and plump red lips and messy, dark hair, an edging of stubble on a defined jaw and skin pale and youthful. Before Erik had managed to remember how to do the whole inhale-exhale thing, he found himself asking if the handsome stranger needed help finding his dog. 

"You don't have to-" He'd started to say, confused and gorgeous, tugging at the thick cable knit of an over sized cardigan that hinted at the shape beneath, that, for some unknown reason, Erik found sexier than any lingerie or enticing outfit he'd encountered in his small but varied sexual experience. 

"I want to!" He blurted out, the handsome man smiled and flushed and Erik felt ridiculously elated that he hadn't immediately said  _no_ and recoiled. 

They introduced themselves, the warm pressure of Charles's small hand in his thrilling even in it's simplicity. 

"So," Erik said, the heavy press of guilt on his stomach not nearly enough to expel his exhilarated butterflies, "Where first?" 


End file.
